The dawn came pale and fragile over the town. Mist curled through narrow streets and clung to rooftops, softening the edges of the world. Arin woke before the temple bells, stiff from yesterday's work, and found the shard resting quietly beside him. Its faint glow pulsed with a rhythm almost like a heartbeat, a presence both comforting and demanding. He touched it, and warmth ran through him, a reminder of the lives he had touched and the memories he had surrendered.
Mara moved beside him without sound. "You cannot linger," she said. "The town waits, and the spark will not forgive hesitation."
Arin dressed slowly, his muscles aching. Each day, he felt a little more hollow. Pieces of himself—memories, feelings, small joys—had been claimed by the shard, and yet the eyes of the town still sought him. They pleaded, sometimes begged, sometimes demanded. He had become the fulcrum of their hope, the vessel of their belief.
They emerged into the market square. The morning was alive with sound: carts rattling, merchants shouting, children laughing and dodging between legs. Yet all of it faded as he noticed the crowd gathering near the fountain. Faces turned toward him, expectant, anxious, and pressing with need. The shard pulsed faintly in his pocket, as if sensing the anticipation, responding to the weight of belief he carried.
A man knelt, clutching a child in his arms. "Please," he said, voice trembling. "My daughter cannot walk. Only you can help her." Arin felt the shard's warmth press against his chest, a quiet insistence. He knelt beside the girl, placing his hands on her legs, letting the shard's energy flow outward. Bones realigned, muscles eased, and color returned to her cheeks. She stood, faltering at first, then took a steady step, eyes wide with wonder.
The cost was immediate. The memory of the first time he had ever flown a kite, the joy of wind lifting it into the sky, faded completely. He tried to call it back, but it was gone, replaced by hollow emptiness. The shard pulsed faintly, satisfied.
The crowd whispered and murmured, spreading word of the miracle. Coins, ribbons, small offerings appeared at his feet, though Arin barely noticed them. His mind was consumed with the constant negotiation between giving and losing, between the warmth of the shard and the hollowness that followed.
Mara's voice finally broke through. "Enough," she said. Her presence commanded the crowd to quiet. "You cannot heal all, nor should you try. Restraint is the only lesson you can enforce upon yourself." Some muttered resentment, but most stepped back, accepting her words. Arin felt the shard pulse, sensing the lingering belief pressing against him, eager for more.
Back at the temple, Mara guided him to a small chamber filled with books, scrolls, and old sermons. "The shard is not just power," she said. "It is exchange. Each act of giving comes at a cost. Each loss is measured. You must learn what you can afford to give, and what you must withhold."
Arin sank onto a bench, touching the shard. "How much more can I give before there is nothing left of me?" he whispered.
No answer came. Only the steady pulse of the shard, persistent and patient. Each beat reminded him that the world's demand was infinite, and that the spark's hunger was relentless.
Later, he walked the temple's stone paths alone, the evening settling softly over the town. The streets were quiet, but the echoes of the day remained: whispers of his name, small coins left in gratitude, the stories of those he had touched—all binding him to responsibility he could not escape. Deep in his mind, memories he had lost whispered too, fragments of life he could no longer grasp.
He thought of the children, of the ill, of the women and men who had looked to him for salvation. Each was a demand, each a shard of belief pressed into his hands. He wondered how many more days he could walk this path without fracturing entirely.
Night fell fully, and Arin returned to the temple, Mara waiting as always. "You are changing," she said softly. "Not merely in skill, but in perception. You will see and feel differently. The world will weigh on you differently. That is the burden of sight."
"I do not want this burden," Arin murmured.
"You have no choice," Mara replied. "You will bear it whether you wish to or not. But you will learn to navigate it. That is what separates a man from a god."
He lay awake long into the night, the shard glowing softly beside him. Its pulse was steady, insistent, a reminder that rest was never complete. The world would never stop asking. The spark would never rest. Every face, every plea, every whispered story carried a demand. And he, alone, bore the ledger of payment.
In his dreams, fires stretched across the horizon. Each flame was a life, a story, a debt. And he walked among them, hands outstretched, giving warmth and light, feeling always the cost pressed into his bones.
By the first light of dawn, Arin was awake again, staring at the shard. Its glow was steady, patient, almost knowing. He touched it lightly, whispering, "I will learn. I must."
For the first time, he felt a flicker of determination within the hollow emptiness left by all he had given. And he knew that tomorrow, he would stand again, hands outstretched, ready to bear the cost once more.